“But why?” Aunt Hetty set down her knitting in her lap.
How could she explain to them why she hated him? And it had become a strange sort of hatred, all mixed up with attraction. When he had asked if he might kiss her, she had had that feeling in her womb again and a weakness in her legs. She had wanted him to kiss her. She had wanted to feel his mouth on hers. She had wanted to know if he would kiss her open-mouthed again, as he had on the only other occasion when he had kissed her. And she had wanted to feel his body against her own, masculinity against femininity. It had been an erotic and explosive mix that once.
She had been surprised when he had released her as soon as she said no. She had expected him to kiss her anyway. Ever since then, she had tried to suppress the suspicion that she had been disappointed not to be forced. She did not like to think that perhaps no with her did not always mean no. She would have blamed him afterward if he had kissed her and explained righteously that she had said no and she had meant no. All the blame would have been on him. She would have believed that implicitly.
And she hated him yet again for holding up a mirror before her face and forcing her to see herself in a less than flattering light.
“How can you hate him, Kate dear?” Aunt Martha asked when the silence had stretched. “He is such a very amiable man and handsome enough to make me almost wish for youth again.”
“I do not want to marry him,” Kate said. “I made that clear five years ago and I have made it clear now. But he is persistent. I do not believe he will take no for an answer.”
And yet he had a few evenings ago. She had said no and he had not kissed her. He would not force her to kiss him and he could not force her to marry him. But he would keep asking. She knew he would. But why? She could not understand his persistence.
“Because he loves you, Kate dear,” Aunt Martha said with a sigh.
Aunt Hetty picked up her knitting again and said nothing to contradict her more romantically minded sister.
Kate had not gone out for two days. Neither had he come. Perhaps he had gone back to London, she thought, and felt—what? Hope? Disappointment?
What would she feel if she discovered that he had left? She examined the question quite thoroughly in her mind and forced herself to answer it. She realized it was something she was not in the habit of doing. She had stopped being open and honest with herself long ago. Five years ago. Perhaps longer.
How would she feel? If he had gone away, it would be because he had accepted her refusal. He would never come back. She would live out her life here, perhaps single, perhaps married in time to someone whom she could like and respect. But she would never see him again, or even hear of him. Her father never wrote to her. Her brothers wrote very rarely, and when they did they never wrote of people she knew.
She would never know whether he lived or was dead. She would never know when he married or whom he married. She would never know how many children he had.
How would she feel never to see or hear of him again?
She would feel nothing, she told herself, because she would suppress all memory of him and all feeling for him as she had before. She would be happy again as she had been for almost five years. The cost of the happiness she had achieved was a certain deadness within.
But she was not sure she could die that death again.
It was another reason for hating him. She had not realized how very fragile was the peace she had achieved until he had arrived to shatter it, perhaps forever.
After two days, she could stay inside no longer. She always spent hours of every day out of doors. Only a very heavy fall of rain could keep her housebound. But after the two dreary days the sun shone, and even the usual wind dropped to no more than a delightful breeze.
Kate pinned up her hair securely, donned her cloak, and went outside. She was very tempted to slip over the stile into the woods to see what progress the daffodils had made in the week since she had last seen them. But she dared not. She did not want to encounter him at all. To do so when she was again trespassing would be just too mortifying.
She avoided the roads and lanes too. She had not heard of his leaving. She did not want to meet him by accident if he was out walking or riding after two days of inclement weather.
She would go down onto the beach, she decided. He would hardly go there. A gentleman of such immaculate elegance would not wish to damage his Hessians with sand or risk spotting his clothes with salt spray. And the beach was what she needed today. She needed to be away from the land, close to the sea, close to the source of her peace for the past five years.
Fortunately the sea was at almost full ebb. She walked for almost a mile over the dunes and across the soft sand beyond them, and then across the hard, flat sand that was covered by water at high tide. She walked almost to the edge of the water and felt cut off from the world. All that was left was empty beach, stretching for miles to either side of her, and the sea, vast and perpetually in motion and roaring in such an elemental manner that she was unaware of sound.
She strolled parallel to the sea, just beyond the wet sand, keeping her thoughts blank, opening herself to the healing power of nature.
It appeared to be working until peace deserted her again, abruptly and far too soon. The dog had not barked this time to warn her of its approach. She became aware of it only when it came within the line of her peripheral vision, streaking eagerly toward her. And then it came right up to her and pranced eagerly in front of her and jumped up with its sandy paws to stain her cloak.
“Oh,” she said, “you startled me. But I would far prefer that you not bowl me over.” She rubbed her hand hard over the collie’s tossing head and laughed at its lolling tongue and eagerly cocked ears.
And then she looked beyond the dog. Any hope she might have had that it had escaped and come for a lone run on the beach was dashed. He was still some distance away, but he was coming toward her—or toward his dog. She did consider pushing the dog aside and striding on, hoping that he would take the hint that she did not want to speak with him. Dogs were not so easily shrugged off, she knew, and she did not believe the master was either.
She stood still, and the collie sat at her feet, panting, like a friendly guard.
He had wandered into the woods, hoping that perhaps she would be there again after a few days of unpleasant weather. But he was not surprised to find the woods empty. He could remember telling her that she was trespassing. It was hardly likely that she would come back while he was in residence.
He considered walking on and crossing the stile, over which she must have made her entrance to the woods, and calling at her aunts’ cottage. But it was morning. The afternoon would be the more courteous time to call.
Could she be persuaded to walk out with him again? he wondered. If be asked in the presence of her aunts? They were on his side, he knew, especially the younger one, who had deliberately left them in the library alone together on Monday evening.
